Mrs. Bowker’s ebon staff twitched convulsively and her terrible eyes were like the vent-holes of internal fires; but she managed her rage with a skill that was high tribute to her will-power.  “You are right in selecting this clown—­this tag-rag,” said she.  “You and he, I see, are peculiarly suited to each other....My only regret is that in my blind affection I have wasted all these years and all those thousands of dollars on you.”  Madam Bowker affected publicly a fine scorn of money and all that thereto appertained; but privately she was a true aristocrat in her reverence and consideration for that which is the bone and blood of aristocracy.

“Nothing so stupid and silly as regret,” said Margaret, with placid philosophy of manner.  “I, too, could think of things I regret.  But I’m putting my whole mind on the future.”

“Future!” Madam Bowker laughed.  “Why, my child, you have no future.  Within two years you’ll either be disgracefully divorced, or the wife of a little lawyer in a little Western town.”

“But I’ll have my husband and my children.  What more can a woman ask?”

The old lady scrutinized her granddaughter’s tranquil, delicate face in utter amazement.  She could find nothing on which to base a hope that the girl was either jesting or posing.  “Margaret,” she cried, “are you crazy?”

“Do you think a desire for a home, and a husband who adores one, and children whom one adores is evidence of insanity?”

“Yes, you are mad—­quite mad!”

“I suppose you think that fretting about all my seasons without an offer worth accepting has driven me out of my senses.  Sometimes I think so, too.”  And Margaret lapsed into abstracted, dreamy silence.

“Do you pretend that you—­you—­care for—­this person?” inquired the old lady.

“I can’t discuss him with you, Grandmother,” replied the girl.  “You know you have washed your hands of me.”

“I shall never give up,” cried the old lady vehemently, “until I rescue you.  I’ll not permit this disgrace.  I’ll have him driven out of Washington.”

“Yes, you might try that,” said Margaret.  “I don’t want him to stay here.  I am sick—­sick to death—­of all this.  I loathe everything I ever liked.  It almost seems to me I’d prefer living in a cabin in the back-woods.  I’ve just wakened to what it really means—­no love, no friendship, only pretense and show, rivalry in silly extravagance, aimless running to and fro among people that care nothing for one, and that one cares nothing for.  If you could see it as I see it you’d understand.”

But Madam Bowker had thought all her life in terms of fashion and society.  She was not in the least impressed.  “Balderdash!” said she with a jab at the floor with the ebony staff.  “Don’t pose before me.  You know very well you’re marrying this man because you believe he will amount to a great deal.”

Margaret beamed upon her grandmother triumphantly, as if she had stepped into a trap that had been set for her.  “And your only reason for being angry,” cried she, “is that you don’t believe he will.”